Skyward Fire
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Settling Accounts: The Grapple. A "Rat", a new cadet at the Virginia Military Institute, is abruptly pulled away from his struggles when the United States Army Air Corps presents him with a real one.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

"Sir!" Christian Marshal barked as he halted in mid-step, his chin tucked down to his chest and his arms locked, bent at 90-degree angles in a stiff posture called a "brace". "Mister Auburn, sir! Permission to drive up your stairs, sir!"

"Rack that chin in, scumbag!" the athletic Third Classman barked. He and two other cadets, dressed in their gray wool winter uniforms like Christian was, pushed off the railing at the bottom of the steps they'd been lounging around on and fanned out to get a closer look at the Rat who'd had the misfortune of coming across someone of higher rank in the Corps of Cadets than he was. That was everyone who wasn't a new cadet at the Virginia Military Institute, a lowly, disgusting thing which scurried about and tried to avoid the wrath of bigger, more powerful things. Hence the name of new students at Virginia's fabled military college: Rats.

Christian obediently tucked his chin in even further, praying that this encounter wouldn't last long. Everywhere he went, everything he did, he seemed to piss off an upperclassman. And like all bad things, it seemed, there were different kinds of them.

You had First Classmen, from whose ranks came the cadet officers. They were "seniors" at an ordinary college and had earned, and thus enjoyed, the most privileges- but they also bore the most responsibilities.

Second Classmen were the sergeants, from the regimental and battalion sergeants major to the buck sergeants who ran the individual squads. They were "juniors" at another school.

Then you had the Third Classmen, whose rank-holders were corporals. Just done with being Rats themselves, these guys were often the worst ones to run into. They were all too often full of piss and vinegar, eager to both prove themselves to the upperclassmen above them but also to celebrate their newly-acquired status by tormenting the newest group of Rats.

Not every upperclassman held rank; some cadets were privates all four years. Some became sergeants and stayed there, declining the chance to apply for cadet officer rank as their final year at VMI approached. But senior privates were a minority, even in peacetime, and this was not a time of peace. It was December 3rd, 1943, and the Virginia Military Institute was at war. The Confederate States of America was at war.

They were in their fourth war with the United States, a war that would take back all of the land the Yankees had so greedily stolen at the end of the First Great War. Across the Atlantic, the Confederacy's allies, Britain and France, were battling it out with the German Empire and the Austrian Empire, aiming to achieve the very same thing: the restoration of their stolen land, and victory.

In such times as these, the demand for the kind of man that VMI was known for producing had exploded. The CS Army, the CS Navy, the CS Air Force and the CS Marines, plus every civilian government and law enforcement agency in Dixie were all yelling for as many Institute grads as they could get. The entire country was waging war, with scrap-metal drives and war bond sales events going on all over the nation. Gasoline and coffee were being rationed so they could be more readily provided to the troops. Car production had stopped so trucks and tanks could be turned out for George Patton's Army of Kentucky, who even now were taking the best the damn Yankees could dish out and hurling twice as much back.

The Institute had no problem with the demand for its graduates, and in fact there was a general good feeling on the Post about it. VMI men were in demand, and for the very best of reasons. These were the times that tried men's souls- and those were the times VMI men were made for.

 **XX**

Christian Marshal wanted to be one of those men. He wanted it very badly. He'd first written to the Institute when he was fifteen, and first applied when he was sixteen. Promptly rejected for being underage, Christian just applied again the next year, working through the night to perfect his application. On a mission, Christian had barely slept. But when he sent his application off in the mail, he'd felt good. The work had been worth it.

He'd felt a lot better when his acceptance letter came on May 8th, 1943, one month before his 18th birthday. It had felt like an early birthday present- the best one he'd ever received in his life.

But like a lot of Rats before him, Christian wasn't feeling so good about his choice of college right now. The war fever was indeed doing a lot of good things for VMI; in addition to the high demand for its graduates, cadets were revered as heroes wherever they went. Local children came running to get a look at them when they went on parade or came walking through Lexington on leave; business opened their doors to them, and girls just about always gave them a second look. All that was good. But it also meant that VMI was under a lot of pressure, that many, many people were looking to it to keep on making the men needed to lead the Confederate States of America to victory.

And since shit always rolled downhill, that meant that the stress and burdens of three senior classes came crashing down on the Rats. Christian knew the upperclassmen were actually good guys (mostly), that they'd come to the Institute for the same kind of reasons he had. But it didn't make him feel any better about having to wage a life-or-death struggle as he tried to get back to his room after a long, hard study session in the library, with blackout curtains forcing the use of lamps much earlier than normally would've been the case.

"Mister, you have interrupted my conversation with Stutz and Mercer here," Auburn said, staring hard at the lanky, red-haired Rat.

"Stop moving your eyes, Rat!" Mercer barked suddenly, and Christian jumped. The three corporals laughed.

"Lookit him," Stutz said in his lazy Mississippi drawl. "Boy like this wouldn't have made it five minutes in the Old Corps. I think the Institute's going soft."

"How we gonna win the war with little boys like you?" Auburn challenged, hands on his hips. "Talk, Rat!"

"Sir, I don't know, sir!"

All three Third Classmen responded at once, their faces showing the exaggerated incredulity in their voices.

"You don't know?"

"I wanna hear something better than that, mister!" Auburn almost shouted.

"Sir-" Christian began, but he was cut off almost immediately.

"Shut up, Rat!" Mercer barked, peering into the dark behind him. Out in the center courtyard of the barracks, the sentry, his M1910 Tredegar held at port arms, shouted suddenly, "Halt! Who goes there!"

A voice came back from under the Jackson Arch, the stone top of the entrance to the barracks: "Sir, it is Rat d'Arbanville, B.J.! Respectfully requesting permission to drive in your barracks, sir!"

"Drive in this barracks, Rat!" the sentry shouted, resuming his patrol.

"Oh, what do we have here?" Auburn asked, rubbing his hands together- and not because of the cold. A slight upturn of the edges of his mouth, and the delighted look in his eyes, gave away his glee at the approach of a second Rat.

Christian stayed frozen in place, now bracing stiffly at the position of attention, as his roommate and friend Brian d'Arbanville approached. An Old Families scion of immense wealth who had never once hinted that he had a problem with rooming with, along with two other boys, the poor son of a Clifton Forge logging foreman. It was just one of many things that had ensured the beginning of their friendship.

"Halt, you Rat!" Auburn shouted, holding out the palm of his hand in a "stop" gesture.

"Sir, Mister Auburn, sir! Permission to-"

"Get over here next to your BR, Rat!"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Brian came running over and braced beside Christian; they didn't speak or acknowledge each other in any way; they weren't allowed to. Turning your head, speaking without permission- even moving your eyes in a non-authorized manner was an offense. It was hard to be a Rat.

"Now, I want to repeat what I was saying earlier," Auburn said, pacing in front of them. "Here I was, me and my two classmates, enjoying a cool night and this fresh Virginia mountain air. Then along comes not one, but two dirty, gray, scurrying Rats, no doubt out to destroy my evening and deprive me of any chance to carry on my conversation in peace. I think you're deliberately doing this to me, Rats. What do you say to that? Talk!"

"Sir," Christian said immediately, "It wasn't intentional, sir!"

"Sir, it was not intentional, sir!" Brian added right after.

"Oh, so you think I'm making this up?" Auburn said, putting his hands on his hips and staring at them. "Are you accusing me of lying? Talk, Blowjobs!"

Brian's first two initials, B.J., which he was forced to repeat constantly when identifying himself to upperclassmen or the sentry, had immediately earned him the nickname "Blowjobs". It was a source of constant embarrassment to him and he was tormented with it daily, in spite of his family name. Old Families boys who came to VMI tended to have it even harder than ordinary Rats, because the upperclassmen felt driven to prove there was no favouritism. There wasn't, not as far as Christian could see, but it made life even harder for the Old Families sons among this year's Rat class than it was for boys from more ordinary families.

But if Brian didn't care for his nickname, he didn't show it. Not in his expression, for that would've been noticed immediately, nor in his voice when he replied.

"Sir, I am not calling you a liar, sir. I further apologize for my Brother Rat interrupting you, and for the both of us causing you undue agitation, sir!"

The three Third Classmen laughed; Auburn clapped his hands. "Nice, Rat! Very nice! Spoken like a true Virginia gentleman. I almost feel like letting you Rats go." He paused, looking between them. "But I think that'd be letting you guys off easy. And we don't do things the easy way at the Institute- do we, Rats?"

"Sir, no, sir!" the two boys shouted together.

"How do we _do_ them, Rats?" Auburn asked.

"The hardest way possible, sir!"

"Because anything less would make us damn Yankee pansies, Rats!"

"Sir, _yes_ , sir!"

Standing in front of Christian now, the dark-haired corporal looked at Christian, his eyes hidden under the black visor of his cap. "What's that next to you, Rat?"

Wisely not moving his head as Auburn pointed, Christian raised his voice and responded, "My Brother Rat, sir!"

"Your what?"

"My Brother Rat, sir!" Christian shouted.

"Aw, lissen to the little boy, mumblin' to himself," Mercer drawled mockingly.

"Louder, Rat!" Auburn demanded.

" _My Brother Rat, sir_!" Christian screamed it until his voice broke.

Brian d'Arbanville screamed it with him.

"Together, Rats!"

Chanting it now, Christian and Brian yelled "Brother Rat! Brother Rat!" Just as loud as they could, their shouts echoing throughout the barracks.

Finally, after the two of them had yelled into the frigid air for almost three minutes, Auburn barked, "Shut up, Rats!"

Into the abrupt silence that descended, Auburn said, "I'm disappointed, Rats. That was pathetic. But it'll do for now. You two-"

Starting low, and gaining volume every second, the whirring sound of an air raid siren winding up began. In seconds, it became a high-pitched, keening wail. Falling off, it quickly rose to a wail again. Rising and falling off, rising and falling off. All around the barracks, doors opened and cadets came out, looking around, at each other, and skyward in confusion.

"What the fuck…?" Auburn said, staring up at the night sky.

"We've already had the drill for this month," Stutz remarked.

"Shit, we've had enough drills for the whole goddamn war!" Mercer replied.

Christian was abruptly seized with terror; with the realization that this was simply not any kind of drill or exercise. "Sir," he began, "Request permission to speak, sir!"

"Shut up with the sir sandwiches, Rat!"

Cadet Colonel Andrew Rogers shouted it as he banged open the door to his room and came running over, his roommates and fellow cadet officers rushing up behind him.

"What the fuck are you people standing around for?!" Rogers screamed, running out into the courtyard. "Get out of bed! Now, now, now! _Move it_!"

The regimental sergeant major came running down off the second level, hollering about everyone falling in by company outside the barracks.

"There's no _time_ for that!" Rogers shouted, interrupting him. "Rats!" he yelled to the barracks, "Form up with the nearest upperclassmen with rank! I want every corporal, sergeant and officer taking at least 10 men and moving his ass out of here! Go, go! Let's move it! Gun crews get to your posts; everybody else to the shelters!"

And as if to emphasize his point, Rogers took off for the Jackson Arch at a sprint, waving to Christian and Brian as he went, his roommates following in a hurry.

"Come on, idiots! With me!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

The droning of aircraft engines became audible just two minutes later. By then uniformed cadets were streaming out of every barracks on the Post. TAC officers and staff members who lived on Post were coming out of their houses. Those young enough to be able to fight quickly joined the cadets and took charge where they could; those too old to be able to help were respectfully but firmly rushed along to one of the air raid shelters.

Two 3.7-inch anti-aircraft cannons had been installed on the Post in 1941, just a month before the war started. They were already beginning to fire as Christian followed the regimental commander out across the parade ground. Their explosions thundered across the darkened campus, temporarily turning night into day.

Any time now the bombs would begin to fall.

"There hasn't been a raid on Lexington for the whole goddamn _war_!" one of Rogers' roommates panted as they ran.

"Maybe they figured they'd hit Richmond enough," another replied.

"Maybe they got tired of you telling your goddamn nigger jokes, De la Riviere," the third one said, and the four First Classmen laughed.

"Where are we going, sir?" Christian asked, unable to help himself.

"Into town, Rats," Rogers yelled over his shoulder. "Myself and a bunch of other upperclassmen are air raid wardens and AA gunners for this town. We're supposed to get into town and help the civilians get to the shelters, keep 'em from losing their shit."

"Even the Minks?" Christian asked- again, he couldn't seem to stop himself.

" _Especially_ the Minks, Rat," Rogers replied, as he and his roommates laughed.

"Mink" was the VMI cadet's name for anyone who was a student of Washington University, the other college to inhabit Lexington. It was the Athens to VMI's Sparta, and the two had a mostly-friendly rivalry between their Officer Training Force units. Sometimes there were fights, especially between cadets and some of the fraternities at W&L, but overall things were pretty civil. Minks, along with many other people around Virginia, called VMI cadets "Keydets", a term that the Institute had officially adopted after deciding they liked it. The term originated with a Southern slang pronunciation of the term "cadet".

"Sir, what about the Institute? Who'll be in charge if you're gone?" Brian asked.

"My XO's taking care of the Institute," Rogers replied. "Now shut up, Rats. They're gonna be hitting us any second now."

Never stopping or even pausing once, the team of 6 cadets pounded downhill, off Post, and into the streets of Lexington. Within moments, other teams of cadets, some already in place, some just arriving, turned on massive searchlights and began firing the handful of other AA guns in Lexington. Other groups rushed by, heading for their positions at street intersections. Rogers led them to one a few blocks into town, joining up with a desperate-looking man in his fifties with the uniform of a Major in the Home Guard, who was trying to manage a frantic crowd rushing towards Town Hall.

"No, no, folks, not so fast, please!" the man was saying. "Y'all gotta slow down or y'gonna keep on crowding the entrance!"

Christian threw a quick look towards Town Hall behind them; it was besieged by a crowd even bigger than the one ahead, and he could see a few beleaguered authority figures, probably also Home Guard members, trying to guide the townspeople into forming some kind of an actual line. They just went on crowding and shoving towards the jammed doorway.

"We're here to help," Rogers said simply as he came up alongside the man.

"Keydets," the man said, relief plain on his face. "Thank God."

"People, people!" he said, renewed strength in his voice. "Please form a line as you head into the shelter!"

"Form a line!" Rogers shouted, his youthful vigor, and that special fire that made him such an effective regimental commander, putting even more authority in his voice, and making him more easily heard over the sirens and cannons. "Hurry up! Y'all don't have long, just long enough! Get this done, now! Come on, let's go! Form a line!"

"Form a line! Fall in line!" Christian yelled, moving out to work the crowd on his own initiative. Brian went alongside him, and they could see and hear the staff officers accompanying Rogers doing the same thing.

Miraculously, the crowd did seem to heed their commands, and the speed at which the frightened civilians assigned to take shelter here made their way into Town Hall increased greatly.

As the wardens hastened to close the doors, a young man- a teenage boy, no older than fourteen- came running out of the dark towards them. He was carrying something in his arms; it was a small child, maybe five or six, clinging to his older brother and crying. The older boy had a small teddy bear in one hand, probably the child's most prized possession.

"No!" the boy screamed, panic clear in his voice. "No! Don't close the doors, _please_! Wait!"

"Marshal, d'Arbanville, get ready to close those doors!" Rogers yelled from the intersection, looking towards the running boy.

Christian and Brian both hesitated; he didn't want to close them. Not yet.

"But, sir-"

" _Do it_!"

Running to join the wardens at the door, two old men who were waving the last few people in as calmly as they could manage, Christian and Brian each stopped near one of the big, wide doors. They began swinging them shut.

"Please!" the boy yelled again. He broke into an even faster sprint than before; even in the dark Christian could see his face, white as a ghost, was shining with sweat.

Rogers slapped the boy on the back as he ran past. He cleared the intersection in seconds and didn't slow a bit. "Run! Run for it! Marshal, close those doors the _second_ -"

The regimental commander's voice was cut off amidst a thunderous roar. The hand of God picked Christian up and threw him off his feet. He rebounded off the wall, hit the brick walk, and struck his head. The lights went out.

 **XX**

"Marshal! Marshal, come on, man! Wake up!" Christian opened his eyes to see Brian crouched over him, a worried look on his grimy face.

"Oh, damn," the redhead grumbled. "What the hell-"

"No time, man, there's no time!"

"Okay," Christian said, sitting up. The ground shook. Again, and again. The drone of aircraft engines overhead, the heavy, deep thudding of anti-aircraft cannons, brought him back.

"The doors!" he shouted, jumping up. "Close the doors!"

"We've done that!" Brian yelled. "It's okay! The two kids made it inside, they were the last ones!"

"Where's the Colonel?" Christian slowly got up and looked around. "Hell, where'd all his roommates go? Where the hell _are_ those guys?"

Brian stared around. "I… I don't know. That bomb went off in the middle of the street."

"Maybe-maybe he's with one of the gun crews or something," Christian said, thinking out loud. As he and Brian neared the jagged edges of the crater, though, his heart sank.

1,000 pounds is a lot just by itself, but it takes on a whole new kind of power when consisting mostly of high explosive, dropped from hundreds of feet up. Almost spot where the regimental commander had last been seen standing was a crater more than fifteen feet wide and at least as deep. Chunks of torn pavement were scattered in every direction. A long, bloody smear was visible in the twilight along the street. A blood-stained cap lay on the grass nearby, torn and messy. Christian ran over to it, knelt and picked it up, looking at the scrawled name written on the inside.

 _Andrew Rogers_

"Oh, shit," Christian whispered. "Oh, God."

A gray-clad figure lay writhing not far away. As the two Rats moved closer, they recognized the older cadet's face, pale and handsome even when twisted with pain. It was the blond regimental athletic officer, Kevin de la Riviere.

"What happened, sir?" Christian asked as he crouched over him.

"They fucking bombed the _shit_ outta this town, that's _what_ , you dumbass Rats," De la Riviere said, shutting his eyes as he clenched at his side; his gray wool uniform was darkening with blood. "That-that bomb hit as I was gonna rejoin Rogers on the street; I just barely missed the whole blast." He groaned. "Augh! _Fuck_ , this hurts."

"Well- well, what do we do now?" Brian asked. He sounded not far from the edge of panic. Christian wasn't doing so great himself, but he somehow managed to keep calm enough to take in more of what was happening around him.

The explosions of the bombs, beginning to slacken off now as the droning engines retreated, came mostly from the direction of Washington University.

The Yankees had come to bomb a goddamn college.

"Always knew they'd come for _us_ one of these days," De la Riviere said, lying back on the grass. "Never thought they'd go for Washington instead."

"Those sons of bitches," Christian whispered, his voice trembling with rage.

Brian seemed to have realized what was happening, too. "It can't- it _can't_ be. Not even they would stoop so low."

But they had. And as if to drive the point home, flames light the advancing night with their warm, orange glow. So comforting when seen from a fireplace in the winter, that reddish-orange light signified something terrifying and horrible now.

Washington University was on fire. And if those screams said anything, Minks were burning to death.

 **XX**

Christian went to jump up but a strong hand jerked him down. Turning to see who it was, the redhead saw Kevin De la Riviere, his face filled with pain.

"Other people are gonna help them. You think the boys back at Post will just let the Minks burn? That fucking rivalry shit is meaningless now."

"But I can _help_!" Christian insisted, getting angry now. " _Let me go_!"

" _No_!" De la Riviere said, holding on with surprising strength. He jerked his head across the street, to the 3.7-inch anti-aircraft cannon. The gun crew were all down and writhing, or down and not moving at all. A lot of the sandbags surrounding their position had been blown out of place by a near-miss from a bomb, and the whole position had been showered in dirt. Yet still the cannon pointed skyward, as did the unmanned spotlight nearby.

"You really think the damn Yankees just sent _one wave_?" De la Riviere asked, his face pale and strained. "That's like asking if a nigger's got dark skin."

"Guys!" a cadet shouted; one of the few who seemed mostly unharmed was getting to his feet by the gun. "Guys, over here! I got wounded over here, too!"

The droning of aircraft engines was growing again.

"You hear 'em," De la Riviere breathed. "You wanna help those boys n'girls at Washington? Get your asses over to that gun."

"What about you, sir?" Brian asked.

De la Riviere hesitated for a second. "Help me up," he said.

Getting one arm around each of their shoulders, Kevin De la Riviere fought to stand up between them. One of his legs had been injured and he was clearly in a great deal of pain.

"You okay?" Christian asked.

"I'm here," De la Riviere answered with effort. "I'm alive. Don't worry about me."

The roar of aircraft engines was growing closer; the second wave had to be just moments away.

"Get _over_ here, _come on_!" a cadet sergeant called, waving them over; he and another boy in gray had managed to get on their feet again.

Walking De la Riviere over as quick as they could, Christian and Brian introduced themselves as Rats from A Company.

"Well, I'm a squad leader in 2nd Platoon," the sergeant said. "Will Camden. I am-" he paused, noticing the regimental athletic officer- "I _was_ in charge here."

But De la Riviere just waved him off. "Forget about me, Camden. This is your gun, and I've been hit. You're in charge." Looking between the two Rats holding him up, he added,"Put me down, guys. I'll help look after the wounded."

Carefully setting him down behind an intact section of sandbags, Christian and Brian quickly came over to Sergeant Camden.

"Guys, there's just a couple of us that can still man the gun," Camden said nervously. He motioned to a few other gray-clad cadets who'd managed to sit up. "They can help hand us ammo, but I need some help. Those damn Yankees are comin' back and I'll be _damned_ if I'm gonna take this shit lyin' down."

Christian felt surprisingly calm as the droning noise of the engines grew louder, and other guns around town began to fire for the second time. "Where do you need us?"

* * *

 **A/N: The United States' first bombing of Lexington, Virginia occurred in late 1943 in Settling Accounts: The Grapple and was specifically an attempt to target the Confederate nuclear weapons project, based at Washington University. I depict the locals, and VMI's cadets, as not really knowing that their country has its nuclear program there, as such a project would be highly classified. The relatively low amount of air defenses in Lexington- how I chose to depict it- I explain largely by the fact that Lexington is a small college town in the mountains of western Virginia, and the raid in late 1943 was probably the first Lexington had experienced in the whole war. Installing more air defenses, while helpful in some respects, would also have risked drawing attention to Lexington and getting the town bombed sooner.**

 **VMI was a great asset to the Confederate States of America in the mere four years that nation existed, as was The Citadel of Charleston, South Carolina. VMI's graduates not only distinguished themselves in Confederate service, the cadets themselves served as drill instructors for the Confederate States Army, often being responsible for training groups of men much older than themselves. In a world where the Confederacy had won its war for independence and thus military colleges like the United States Military Academy at West Point and the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis would have become unavailable to train aspiring officers, VMI's usefulness to the Commonwealth of Virginia and the nation Virginia seceded to join would have only increased.**

" **These are the times that try men's souls" is part of a writing by Thomas Paine.**

 **The details of VMI and life there and of the bombing raid on Lexington are as authentic as I have been able to make them. For any mistakes, errors, or inaccuracies, I apologize.**


End file.
